


Changes in Attitudes, Changes in Latitudes

by runningscissors



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Minor Canonical Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Sobriety, Substance Abuse, mention of: Cleo (The Queen's Gambit) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors
Summary: "Someday you're gonna be all alone, so you need to figure out how to take care of yourself." Harsh words for a five-year-old to hear, but her mama had been right in a way. Like it or not, she was on her own now."Beth in the aftermath and what comes next.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & D. L. Townes, Beth Harmon & Jolene, Beth Harmon/Benny Watts, Harry Beltik & Beth Harmon
Comments: 13
Kudos: 206





	Changes in Attitudes, Changes in Latitudes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greengardens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greengardens/gifts).



> Yes, this is named after a Jimmy Buffett song. No, it has absolutely no bearing or influence on this work. I just liked the title. 
> 
>   
> Written for the ever-lovely @greengardens. This is what happens when you live in a lock-down. You write and write and write.

* * *

The first real pangs began somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. 

It started as a headache, a dull ache that grew into a pounding pressure behind her eyes. Easily dismissible, though, as far as symptoms were concerned. She’d had neither a coffee nor a cigarette that day, as Agent Booth hauled her through the airport in Moscow, still fuming that they’d missed their initial flight. And her sleep had been a restless one, the airport hotel leaving much to be desired compared to her earlier accommodation in the city centre. Then came the stomach cramps, but she’d not eaten anything substantial since breakfast, so again, easily explained away. 

By the time the nausea and trembling began, Beth knew she could no longer deny what was staring her in the face as she gazed at her ashen reflection in the small airplane bathroom mirror. It wasn’t air sickness, or travel fatigue, or anything else her mind could excuse away. 

She was going through the beginnings of withdrawal. More intense than anything she’d ever experienced at Methuen. 

The thought made her feel dirty and ashamed. Addiction was for the gutter of society, not girls in expensive cashmere mock-neck sweaters. But then she remembered the vomit left to harden in her U.S. Championship trophy for days, the beer and red wine stains in her carpet, the dishes rotting in her sink, and knew that wasn’t exactly the behaviour of so-called cashmere wearing girls either. 

By the time Beth dragged herself into the comfort of her own bed in Lexington, she was just about ready to crawl out of her skin. Her body was on fire, yet she’d never felt colder in her whole life, chills coursing through her, down to her bones it felt like.

She lasted another hour, one whole sweat-soaked, body trembling hour before eventually, she caved. She rolled out of bed, legs like a newborn colt as she stumbled to the bathroom cabinet, _to tranquillity,_ and it called to her like a siren song, powerless to resist _._ Her fingers trembled uncontrollably as she fumbled with the lid, little green pills rattling about merrily. But just as she got the cap off, the bottle slipped from her grasp and shattered, scattering broken shards of glass and Xanzolam tablets across the floor. 

“Fuck” she cried, dropping to the ground in a desperate scramble to gather pills off the floor, her fingers and knees bloodied as she swallowed them dry. She blindly reached for a towel, tears burning in her eyes as she fruitlessly tried to wipe up the mess of glass and pills, before giving up and shoving the towel across the room. 

_“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”_

Why had she thought she could do this?

A volatile cocktail of anger, shame, and overwhelming disappointment churned in her stomach, and she crumpled. Her back connected roughly with the side of the bathtub as she gave in to the tears, sobs wracking her body, till she felt the sedative kick in and gladly succumbed to the heavy feeling pulling her down like a welcoming weight. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I’m worried I’m going to die in my bed alone like Alma.”

Jolene gave a heavy sigh. Beth could still picture it, the look on Jolene’s face as she’d stepped into the eye of Beth’s hurricane life, the disaster zone of her house. It was the same one she had now. _God Beth_ …

She’d hated the idea of calling Jolene. She had her own life, her own problems— she didn’t need to clean up Beth’s as well. But when she’d been sorting through her piles of mail, a letter from the bank had thrown her. She’d defaulted on her mortgage payments, and her winnings from Moscow weren’t enough to keep her out of the red. Not with the debts she’d racked up these past months and the money she’d already paid Jolene back with. 

And to top it all off, her lawyer had retired without her knowing, so as of right now, Jolene was the closest thing she had to legal support. 

Beth had only been home a week, and already the walls were closing in around her. 

She was supposed to start a media tour in a week, but she didn’t see how she could. She looked like shit, she felt like shit, trying to sustain herself on two pills a day, but it wasn’t enough. It was a thirst she couldn’t quench. The longer Beth sat at home, terrified that if she left she’d head straight to the liquor-mart, the more she’d felt _it,_ clawing at the hem of her pants, a phantom at the end of the bed just waiting for the lights to go off and pull her down. 

She’d thought of going to Harry’s office at the supermarket, or calling Townes and begging either of them to clear the house of all the pills while she walked around the block. But last time she’d seen Harry still left her burning with shame, and after everything they’d both done and tried to do for her, she couldn’t see either of them like this. 

No one could understand it the way Jolene could. Free of pity or judgement (no matter how well-intentioned others might be, there was always judgement— that she was squandering her talents, that she was a victim of life’s misfortune, _the joy and the sorrow of chess_ ).

“Shit, let’s focus on your _normal_ concerns like a _normal_ fucking adult would? Y’know, your unpaid bills, your mortgage…”

“I pay other people to be concerned about that,” Beth said as she lit a cigarette. There was still a tremor in her hands, and Jolene cocked a brow pointedly. “I’m sorry,” Beth mumbled, flicking ash away, “You’re right. I need to deal with my own shit.” 

The truth was, in many ways, Beth didn’t know how to be an adult. No one had taught her any of this. How to truly take care of herself, how to let people in, how to fight the demons in her mind instead of succumbing to them the way her mama had. She’d had no real stable adult figures to look up to, except maybe Mr. Shaibel, but their world had been contained to chess alone. And Alma, well… she’d loved Alma, but most days, it had felt like she had taken care of Alma as much as Alma had mothered her. A companion and parent all tied up in substance abuse and advice that sounded like it came from the pages of _Woman’s Day._

 _Someday you're gonna be all alone, so you need to figure out how to take care of yourself._ Harsh words for a five-year-old to hear, but her mama had been right in a way. Like it or not, she was on her own now. 

“What am I going to do about the house?” Beth asked, blowing smoke out the corner of her mouth. 

“I think you know,” Jolene replied softly, lighting her own cigarette and leaning back in her chair. 

Beth looked around the kitchen, the new pink appliances that the salesman had tried to talk her out of and knew what the answer was. She’d had this thought, lying in her bed these last few days— what was keeping her here in this house, in Lexington, in Kentucky even? Why was she trying to hold onto something that had never really been there? 

She could see now that Allston, that fucking pathetic snake, had manipulated her into taking the house off his hands, and in her grief and anger, she had fallen for it. She’d poured her savings into this place, and for what? To stare at trendier wallpaper and updated furniture as she killed herself with booze and pills the same way Alma had? Her adoptive mother had been a prisoner in her own life in this house, just another miserable suburban housewife when she could have been so much more. Beth’s happy memories weren’t here. They were in hotel rooms and on the road, just the two of them on grand adventures. 

Holding onto this house didn’t make her feel closer to Alma. She was just terrified of letting go of the only real sense of home she’d ever known. 

“I have to sell this place,” Beth said with a sigh, rubbing at her neck. 

“Afraid so, cracker,” Jolene gave her sympathetic pat on the hand, then smiled. “Best to sell before the bank forecloses. ‘sides, you were meant for better things than white ass Lexington.” 

Beth couldn’t help but laugh at that. 

* * *

  
  


“If you’re serious about going pro—”

Beth’s fingers curled around the phone cord tighter and tighter. “I am,” she said firmly. 

“—then you should be in New York.” Benny finished, that tone in his voice he always got when was dolling out advice. 

She’d been home a few days when the compulsion to call Benny had been too great to ignore. It was only right, she’d thought as she’d paced her room, to call and thank him for what he’d done for her in Moscow. The lump in her throat had been so large as the telephone rang that she thought she might choke. 

_Don’t call me anymore._

It turned out her fear was unfounded. Benny was just the same as always. Concise but congenial as he shrugged off her thanks and praised her gameplay in Moscow. There was none of the previous anger or hurt from before in his voice, clearly water under the bridge, as all things between her and Benny seemed to go. As she’d hung up the receiver, she felt the expected emotions— happiness and relief that they were back on speaking terms.

But as the days had passed, she couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that flickered like a little flame within her every time she thought about it. They were good, it seemed, her past transgressions forgiven. Allies once more. Isn’t that what she wanted? 

“I’ll be in New York in two days for all these mindless interviews the Federation has organized for me.”

“You know what I mean,” Benny said in exasperation. “Permanently. The Federation’s headquarters are here, all the best clubs are here, and FIDE runs title events here more than anywhere else in the country. Plus, everything flies out of New York, so going international is a hell of a lot more convenient.” He paused, sighing. “Honestly, Beth, it’s stupid that the best chess player in the world, which is _you,_ by the way, is still in fucking Kentucky playing little Suzy Homemaker.” Then as if an afterthought, Benny added, “No offence.”

There was a tense silence, and Beth bit at her lip. Only Benny could compliment her and insult her in the same sentence. “I know,” she said finally. “I know, Benny. You’re right.” 

“I know I am.” He responded immediately, “I usually am. You just don’t normally accept it so quickly.” 

“Well, I’m accepting it now, okay. So, I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he replied after a moment, “of course.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Beth had a week scheduled in New York, then a stopover in Dayton for _Phil Donahue_ , before heading to D.C. to “play” chess with President Johnston in his last days in office. 

The Federation put her up at the Americana, and over the next few days, she did her agreed-upon rounds to all the major network studios she was booked on— _This Morning_ with Dick Cavett, _Merv Griffin_ and _The Tonight Show_. She did her print interviews in the hotel bar and lobby— _Look, New York Magazine, Time, Life,_ and all the major papers. A representative from the Federation accompanied her throughout, managing her schedule and ensuring she hit all the talking points the USCF and State Department wanted. Apparently, Beth had developed a reputation for being difficult. 

_Prima-donna,_ she thought with a smile. 

Beth didn’t want to do any of this. She didn’t see the point really, it was all the same— questions about her gender, her childhood, chess as a career. The only new bits were questions about ‘ _the Reds’,_ which irritated her to no end, and her newfound celebrity. Her interviews with _Vogue_ and _Cosmopolitan_ seemed more interested in her fashion and beauty tips than her chess play, which felt like the Apple Pi’s all over again. At least _Chess Review_ and _Chess Life_ had the decency to ask for details about the Invitational.

What she wanted was a drink. Alone at night in her hotel room, she could feel the call of the bar downstairs, gussied up all pretty for the Christmas season. She was sick of slinging back coffees and Cokes during her interviews or nursing Club Sodas during dinners. 

Instead, she upped her nightly Xanzolam dosage, justifying it in her mind that she needed to look her best right now, not sick from withdrawal. After things quieted down over the holidays, she’d see a doctor and stop the pills. 

Compared to the pills, the booze was easy. She’d gone a month at Benny’s without a drop, and she hadn’t missed it, not really. Then again, the drinking had never been fuelled by chess, but by loneliness and boredom. But chess had always been entangled with the pills in a dual addiction. At Methuen, when she’d lost the drugs, she’d lost chess as well, and maybe she’d needed the pills for chess at first, but like a vicious circle, she’d come to use chess as an excuse for the pills. Yet, she’d been totally sober in Russia and had beaten Borgov. She’d found that focus with her mind alone, no pills needed to see the board. That should be proof enough that she didn’t need the pills. 

So why was she still petrified that she’d lose it all? 

  
  


* * *

  
  


After three days of non-stop press, Beth got the first real lull in her schedule. She’d had her taping with _The Tonight Show_ that afternoon, but she didn’t have anything scheduled again until tomorrow evening when the Manhattan Chess Club hosted an event for her. 

In all of the media circus, Beth hated the chat shows the most. The cameras, the pound of makeup and hairspray they coated her in, the stage lights that made her sweat, the audience staring at her. And the hosts— these men feigning interest in her, barely asking anything real about chess, too focused on how ‘ _such a pretty girl could be interested in something like chess.’_ She felt like a prop for these comedians to riff on, and she didn’t find it particularly funny. 

She’d never been so happy to see Benny’s junked up Beetle when her cab dropped her off that evening. If ever she’d needed a moment to just breathe and be herself, it was now. But as she descended the steps to Benny’s apartment, her heart felt like a drum in her throat. Jesus, she hadn’t seen Benny in almost a year. Her weeks here felt like a lifetime ago, sat amongst his tat drilling endgame variations. In her most maudlin moments, her head scrambled from the drink and the drugs, she’d sometimes lay in bed and think of those days wistfully. 

But she could see it all clearly now. Holed up with Benny for five straight weeks of nothing but chess wasn’t the real world. It was a cave where the world’s realities ceased to exist— like hibernating in a way, and when she surfaced, so did all her demons. Beth was always going to relapse; it was inevitable, a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off. Cléo had only been the catalyst, the excuse she used to let her self-doubt sabotage her. 

She had to hit bottom first before she could ever see her way up. 

Beth took a moment to smooth her hair. She liked the way the NBC studio stylist had done it— smoothed and curled in at the ends with volume like Barbra Streisand. Then she knocked, her heart pounding but a smile already tugging at her lips. 

For a breathless moment, she stood there, then the door swung open, and her smile faltered. 

“Beth,” Hilton Wexler exclaimed in delight from the other side of the doorway, already moving to greet her with a kiss to the cheek and a friendly embrace before her mind could catch up. “Come in!”

“Hi Hilton,” she mumbled, her cheeks and neck suddenly hot and her stomach feeling like it had dropped out to her feet. Wexler stepped back to allow her passage. Benny and Arthur Levertov were sat at the kitchen table, the always present chess set between them, and Levertov jumped up to greet her in kind. Benny just smirked, his chair propped, so only the back legs touched the floor. 

“Zdravstvuj, kid,” he said, arms crossed over his chest. He looked just the same, not one thing different except maybe that his hair looked scruffier. Beth arched one dark brow in response, and Benny’s smirk spread into a grin. 

_That’s it? That’s all I get?_ Beth thought in dismay as Wexler and Levertov ushered her in and sat her down, both loudly eulogizing over each of her games in Moscow. 

“We watched you on _Merv Griffin_ two nights ago,” Levertov said excitedly, “you were wonderful!” 

“Thanks,” she mumbled, fidgeting with her hair, her skin flushing hotter and hotter as Benny continued to just sit there, silently rocking back in his chair. Beth had never seen Benny so quiet outside of chess play. She wanted him to fall, for the legs to give out from under him so she could watch him crash to the floor— anything to distract her from how flustered and put out she felt. 

To distract from the disappointment welling up inside. 

In Russia, she’d yearned for Alma, as she always did in these moments that they had so enjoyed sharing. But more than that, for the first time, she’d yearned for Benny, too. Not just for an ally to talk chess with, but _Benny,_ by her side and in her bed. It felt humiliating to sit here now like she was just another member of his chess posse. Like the foolish girl she’d once been all those years ago, alone in Townes’ Vegas hotel room, she’d unknowingly gotten her hopes up, only to have them dashed against the rocks. 

_Whatever_ had been between them before Paris, Benny was obviously over it now. 

Was she just another Cléo? A benign kiss to the cheek in greeting or goodbye as they sporadically flitted in and out of each other’s lives? 

It felt like she was being punished. Yes, she’d pushed him away first, but he hadn’t exactly put up a fight. He’d let her go easily enough as if she wasn’t worth the effort. 

It was him that had cut ties, not her. 

The rest of the night passed in a blur. The boys wanted to watch her interview with Johnny Carson, but she begged them off, embarrassed at the idea of watching herself on television. Instead, they played through her Moscow games, dissecting them in a way that only Benny could as he drilled deeper and deeper into them, Wexler and Levertov left in his wake. 

It felt too intimate, like Benny was analyzing pieces of her soul, like he could see right into her. She wondered how many nights he’d stayed up just staring at the board, playing through her games. Had he imagined her sat across from the board from him or had he compartmentalized it till it was clinical like a textbook? _Harmon’s Queen’s Gambit ending was a masterstroke._

Beth had to stop; it was too much. She suddenly longed for her pills, to get rip-roaring drunk and forget this night entirely. So she hastily stood up and called it a night. 

“You’ll be waiting forever for a cab at this hour. I’ll drive you.” Benny said easily, as she and the others got their things. She protested, but he waved her off, his leather duster already on, and the four of them headed up the entrance alleyway. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow night,” Levertov said as they exchanged goodbyes. “ _Well_ ,” he added with a scoffing nod in Benny’s direction, “Hilton and I will at least.”

Beth turned to Benny with a questioning look, and he rolled his eyes. 

“The Manhattan Club’s not really my scene,” he responded with a shrug, his nose scrunched in distaste as if that explained everything. Then he opened his car door and slid in with a “ _night fellas”_ over his shoulder. With a parting wave to Wexler and Levertov, Beth followed, climbing into the passenger seat with an awkward shuffle. 

This was the first time they’d been alone all night.

“Midtown, right?” Benny asked, pulling out into the road.

Beth nodded, fussing with the sleeves of her coat. “The Americana.” 

Benny snorted. “They go full out for their champ, I see.” 

“I’d hardly call it the height of luxury.” She sniffed, staring out the window. 

Beth’s head was beginning to pound. She would typically have already taken her pills and be tucked up in bed by now. She straightened her spine, mentally pulling herself together. The last person she wanted to know she was still using was Benny, even if he’d never known about the pills. Another lecture about how she needed to get serious about her career as if he had any idea what she was going through. 

She glanced over at Benny, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he maneuvered them through traffic. That wasn’t fair. Benny had championed her at every turn. The only reason they’d fallen out was because she’d pushed him away. 

_I miss you,_ he’d said, and the words had clawed at her throat because she’d missed him, too. He’d put himself out there, in as much as she imagined Benny Watts’ ego would allow him to, and she had let him fall, unable or willing to deal with anything beyond her own hurt. 

No wonder there was this distance between them now. 

Benny would always be her second. He’d proved that. They were better off as friends, and anyway, she was getting quite good at burying romantic disappointments. 

“I’m selling the house,” Beth said casually, looking over to gauge his reaction. Benny's eyes quickly snapped to her, his brows raised in surprise, before turning his attention back to the road. “You’re right. I should be in New York full time.” 

“That’s a big step,” he replied, his tone neutral. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Beth turned to stare at him in annoyance. “Weren’t you just having a go at me for still being in ‘ _f_ _ucking Kentucky’?_ I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am,” he said quickly with a small chuckle, “if that’s what _you_ really want, Harmon. And I wasn’t ‘ _having a go’_ at you,” he added, throwing her a smirk, “I was providing professional advice from one player to another.” Beth rolled her eyes.

“I worry about you,” Benny murmured after a moment, his voice softer now, and something in her cracked a little at the sound. “Bumming around in that big house all on your own.” He didn’t have to say it. Beth knew exactly what he was thinking— that left alone, she’d sink into another months-long bender. Or worse.

“I have friends in Lexington,” Beth responded, wetting her dry lips. “Besides, I don’t need a babysitter. I can take care of myself. I haven’t touched a drop.” 

She could feel his eyes on her as they idled at a red light. 

“Beth,” she hated when he did that, that leading way he uttered her name, like it was enough to cover all the things he didn’t say. She sighed deeply, rubbing at her temple as the throbbing worsened. 

“I know,” she conceded, meeting his eyes. With Benny, whole conversations could pass with just a look. A surprising feat for someone who enjoyed the sound of their own voice as much as Benny did. He nodded, lips quirked in a small, soft grin, and the moment was over. 

Eventually, Benny pulled up to the curb outside the hotel and killed the engine. They sat in silence for a tense moment, then, inexplicably— 

“Do you want to come up?” Beth heard herself ask. _Fuck. No Beth. Why?_

 _“Beth,”_ he breathed like an exhale. His mouth opened, poised to speak, then he sighed heavily and shut it again, lips forming a tight line instead. “Best not,” he finally said. “It’s— it’s not a good idea.” 

“Right,” Beth replied, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, a lump forming in her throat once more. 

“Well, thanks for the ride.” She reached for the door handle, but Benny caught her arm, halting her retreat.

“Beth, wait,” he said, his dark, penetrating stare and unbidden, her mind fluttered… _do you still like my hair…_ “I— I’m proud of you.” He finished. “And I don’t just mean about Russia, although that was fucking spectacular.” Benny grinned now as if he couldn’t help himself. “Whenever you get everything settled in Kentucky, call, okay? I’ll help you find your feet in New York. Whatever you need.” 

She jerked her head in acknowledgement. Despite everything, she was grateful for someone like Benny in her life. 

Then his smile dropped. “What I said before—” _before, Beth impulsive and rash, crawling her way out of the bottom of the bottle and Benny furious_ “—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. If I’d known—”

_Known what? Fuck, did Harry say something?_

“Don’t,” she said sharply, heart thundering in her ears. She couldn’t bear to see pity, not from Benny. “Let’s just move on.”

He nodded, releasing her arm gently, with an affectionate pat. “So, we’re good?” He asked softly, his features pinched in a look of contrition. It gave a schoolboy impression to his already youthful face. 

“Yeah,” she replied, “we're good.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The next night Beth attended a mixer hosted by the Manhattan Chess Club at their Hudson Hotel space. Beth was pleased to see several women in attendance, but by this point had grown rather tedious of discussing her victory in Russia. 

_Just one glass of wine wouldn’t hurt_ , she thought, eying a passing waiter. However, she was saved by Arthur Levertov, and the thought passed as he introduced her to a fellow Israeli player. 

“Where’s Hilton?” she asked as Levertov’s countryman excused himself, scanning her eyes around the room.

“Oh, he’s around somewhere,” Arthur replied with a shrug. “Beth, while I have you alone for a moment, I want to apologize.” Her brows furrowed in confusion, but Arthur pressed on, a bashful expression on his face. “Cléo mentioned what happened in Paris…” 

She could feel herself blushing now, the embarrassment churning her stomach. Arthur at least had to decency not to linger on the unspoken understanding that passed between them. 

“I’m sorry, Beth. It’s not an excuse, but—” Arthur paused, his brows furrowed as if he were searching for words. “Cléo doesn’t understand our world. She never has. To her, it’s just a game.” 

Whether he was referring to chess or something more abstract, Beth didn’t know. 

“Does Benny know?” She forced herself to ask, unable to meet his eye. 

“If he does, it wasn’t me who’s told him. He’s never mentioned it, but…” Arthur’s lips quirked, “Watts keeps his cards close to his chest, as it were.” _Wasn’t that the goddamn truth._ “Either way, I don’t expect we’ll see too much of Cléo in the future. Hilton and I argued with her last we saw her, and neither of us has heard from her since.” 

Beth bowed her head, eyes blinking quickly away. “I don’t blame her. It was my choice, my mistake,” She said plainly. “And anyway,” she added, feigning a calm voice, “I got Borgov eventually.” 

Arthur grinned, fooled by her faux airiness, and she mimicked his expression. If this week in New York had taught her anything, it was how to fake a smile. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Despite her best intentions, Beth relapsed in the winter. 

Back in Kentucky once more, media circus show officially behind her, and the USCF sufficiently placated, Beth had felt good, optimistic even. Instead of playing at a tournament, she spent Christmas in Louisville with Jolene, gorging themselves in front of the television, watching reruns of _Laugh In_ and _The Ed Sullivan Show._ Overall, an enjoyable affair for two young women for which Christmas growing up meant extra hours sat on hard wooden pews in church and slices of dry turkey for dinner. 

But then January hit, and it had all begun to collapsed on Beth like a house of cards. 

Desperate to build back her savings, Beth hit the domestic tournament circuit hard. But the games left her feeling bored. There was no thrill or joy in decimating college students and dabblers. She’d weaned herself down to one pill a night, and while she felt like shit, it was manageable for the most part. But that sharpness and clarity she’d had in Moscow were gone. It felt like she was sleepwalking through her games. 

She’d touched the stars, and now she felt utterly grounded.

“Be careful, Beth,” Benny warned, “too many amateur tournaments can damage your FIDE reputation.” But her FIDE reputation didn’t matter if she couldn’t afford to feed herself, so she re-upped her dosage, chasing that feeling. 

But like before, eventually, the pills weren’t enough. 

“What if I am a washout like Morphy? Destined to burn out before I even make it to twenty-five.” She mumbled to Jolene over the phone one night, curled up in Alma’s housecoat in her hotel room in Des Moines.

“Jesus, Beth,” Jolene sighed, “now, you know I don’t know who that is, but I do know you’re destined for more than that. You’re the best, so get out of your fucking head and act like it.” 

But she couldn’t get out of her head. She lived in her head; it was where she felt the safest. Yet it was also her worst enemy, and eventually, she crumbled. 

She was better to hide it this time, though, let men buy her drinks at the hotel bars to save her dollars and gathered up her empties in the mornings to keep the talk to a minimum. That fucking concierge in Mexico City and his passive-aggressive comments about Alma’s bar tab as they wheeled her body out. 

Then Beth’s house went up for sale at the end of March, and the panic and doubt set in. 

“It’s too much,” she snapped to Jolene on the phone. “It’s _my_ house, my _mother’s_ house. Fucking Benny Watts pushing and pushing me to move to New York, like it’s the centre of the world. Who says I can’t be the best where I am now?” 

She’d been calling Jolene more and more, and she could sense that Jolene had grown tired of it, but she couldn’t seem to stop. It was Benny all over again. She could feel it.

“Yeah,” Jolene snorted, “cause it sounds like you’re doin’ _so_ good where you are. Ain’t you supposed to be playing in the big leagues now? Besides, you can’t afford that house anymore, Beth. Chess or no, if you don’t pay off that mortgage, you won’t have no house to live in anyway. Then how are you gonna afford to get drunk?” Beth felt her body flush with shame. “Yeah,” Jolene continued, “don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

“It’s not like last time,” Beth mumbled. “I can control it. Anyway,” she snarled, “it’s not like you have any idea what I’m going through.” 

Beth regretted her words immediately, lashing out as she had so many times before. But it was too late, damage done. 

“You’re right,” Jolene said, a hard, unflinching edge to her voice. “I don’t know what your life is like. Young, pretty, thin, _white._ Opportunity after fucking opportunity just handed to you. People falling over themselves to support you, help you. People who believe in you, despite all the self-absorbed shit you pull. Never known what that feels like, and I never will. There was no kindly adult to recognize the potential in me; no folks lookin’ to give a Black girl a home or love. Nobody to pick me up off the floor when life got hard. Everything I have I got for myself.” 

Jolene’s voice softened now. “You had a hard start in life, cracker. I’ll give you that. But you act like you the only girl in that whole goddamn orphanage. Like you the only one to experience pain or hardship. The world is a whole lot bigger than you and your chessboard, so open your eyes and look around for once, maybe.” 

Beth’s eyes stung with tears, the tracks wet and sticky on her skin. “I— I’m sorry, Jolene,” she said solemnly, voice catching in her throat. “I don’t want to be this way. I just…” she sucked in a deep, rattling breath, “I don’t—” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jolene sighed. “You need help, Beth. Professional help. I can’t be the only one you let in. If the only thing keeping you from totally spiralling again is me, it’s not enough, honey.” 

* * *

This time Beth called Harry.

“Can I buy you lunch?” She asked hesitantly, and he readily agreed. It was lovely to see Harry and his awkward yet comforting embrace as he stood to greet her. 

“I’m glad you reached out,” he said, and she smiled. 

They chatted amicably at first about her recent tournaments, then Moscow, and Harry’s help in New York. She was still amazed that he and the twins drove all the way to New York, just for her. Without the undercurrent of romantic tension tripping him up, Harry seemed relaxed, and it was easy to just talk like friends in a way they never had before. Beth was sure to ask questions about Harry’s life, mindful of Jolene’s words, about his job at the supermarket and his engineering program, before inevitably it circled around to what Beth was anxiously awaiting, like the elephant in the room. 

“So, how have you been?” Harry asked carefully, popping a fry into his mouth. 

Beth took a large gulp of her coke, then shrugged. “I’ve been… okay.” She said, tracing her nail along the rim of her cup. “I’m selling the house. Benny says that if I want to focus on my FIDE titles, I should be in New York. So, that’s the plan.”

“That’s good, Beth,” Harry said encouragingly. “Benny's right. New York is where you should be.” 

“Di—” the words catch in Beth’s throat, and she took another sip of her drink. “Did your dad ever get help?” She asked, her gaze fluttering up to meet his eye. 

Harry gave her a small little grin, his emotions always so subtly shifting on his face. “He’s attended AA meetings for the past seven years.” 

She nodded, letting out a shaky breath and reaching to light a cigarette. “And, uh, does that work for him?” Beth had already read a pamphlet on Alcoholics Anonymous, and she doubted how talking about her problems with a bunch of strangers was going to help. 

“I’m certainly not an expert, but I know there’s no one cure for sobriety. It’s something you have to work at every day.” He paused, his brows sliding to furrow. “Beth, I, uh, I looked up those pills you take.” Beth wanted to object but held her tongue. “I don’t think AA is going to be enough for those. I read that pills like those are even sometimes used to help people with alcoholism. You need to see a doctor. Someone who can give you specialized help.” 

He shifted in his seat, lowering his voice. “When you’re off them, do you feel sick?” 

She nodded again, taking another drag. 

“I’m sure there are special doctors in New York that could help you.”

“What,” she scoffed in disdain, “like rehab or something? I don’t need to be in some psych ward.” 

Harry shook his head. “It’s not like that. There are lots of options now.” He sighed, his gaze intense and earnest. “Just think about it?” 

“Yeah,” she murmured, “I will.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


In May, Beth’s house sold.

A single mother with two young children bought the house, which pleased Beth as much as it scandalized her Realtor. If Beth was going to give up the only real home she’d ever had, she was glad it was going to a family like she and Alma had been. There was no love when Alma and Allston lived here on their own, but Beth had felt a mother’s love here, maybe for the first time ever, and hopefully, the next children would, too. 

Two weeks later, she packed up her life and moved to New York. 

Beth had sold off most of her furniture by this point in preparation for her move. She had no sentimental attachment to any of it, and it was easier to buy new things than move it all to New York. The only thing Beth kept was Alma’s beloved piano, which went to a rental storage unit in Lexington for the time being. 

The rest was boxed up and shipped to her new apartment in Chelsea, a one-bedroom on 16th Street. It was rent-controlled, which was good considering the price of her rent already, and a close walk to two of the best parks to play in according to Benny, and to the Village where most of the chess clubs and cafes were. 

“God, cracker,” Jolene exclaimed the weekend she drove up to help Beth pack. “How can an orphan have so much damn stuff?” 

The night before her flight Harry and the twins came over to say good-bye. They sat on the floor in her empty living room, eating pizza and playing simultaneous’, and Beth couldn’t say with certainty she’d ever had a more carefree evening. Later, as she crawled into bed (it and the appliances included in the house’s closing deal with the future homeowner), she couldn’t help the tears that silently flowed, overwhelmed by the friendship and support that had been waiting for her all along, if she’d only reached out for it. 

The next day Townes drove her to the airport. She’d planned on a cab, but he’d insisted, and she'd been too pleased by his offer to refuse. Beth watched the house get smaller and smaller as they drove away, till Townes turned the corner and it was gone. After all the anguish these past months, she thought she’d be sadder, but to her surprise, she wasn’t. This is what Alma would have wanted— for Beth to live in a marvellous city like New York, full of life and culture, and have a marvellous life doing something she loved. 

Beth would have to live for the both of them. 

“Kentucky’s proud of you, Beth Harmon,” Townes said at the departure gate at Blue Grass, hands gently placed on her shoulders. Then his hands slid up, softly cupping her cheeks, “And so am I.” 

Beth blinked back tears, smiling into the palm of his hand. It was so easy to love Townes. She never stood a chance. His kindness, his soft brown eyes gleaming with tender emotion. She wondered if, in some twisted way, she’d been drawn to his unavailability, another man who didn’t want her in the same way she wanted him. 

“Daddy Issues,” Jolene had proclaimed when they’d discussed the various men in Beth’s life. “Of course, you like unavailable men. That way, they can’t really hurt you. Hell, why do you think I’m with a married man?” 

She hadn't told Jolene about Cléo. 

After Jolene had bluntly spelled it out, it was obvious, really. Townes, who was emotionally open but physically uninterested, and Benny, who had been all physical and no emotion, until suddenly he wasn’t and she’d floundered. It was why she’d been so lukewarm about her relationship with Harry, who’d been _too_ available until eventually, he retreated. She’d turned him into another unavailable man so that when he ultimately left, it wouldn’t hurt as much. 

But Townes was her friend, and as he pulled her into a parting hug, Beth knew this was better. His friendship felt more right than any silly romantic notion she’d harboured in the past. 

* * *

  
  


Beth’s first few weeks in New York were an _adjustment_ , to say the least, to the quiet suburban life she’d lead in Kentucky. In Lexington, she never heard her neighbours the way she did now, unaccustomed to people living above and below her. Their heavy footsteps, their coughs and hacks, the muffled sounds of her next-door neighbour’s television in the evenings. 

Her neighbour two doors down, a little old Hungarian widow, Mrs. Szabó, took a shine to Beth almost immediately, recognizing her from _The Tonight Show_ and _Life Magazine._ Once a week, she brought Beth leftovers, stuffed cabbage or goulash, which Beth found herself unable to refuse, partly because the food was always delicious. 

Despite the noise and dirt, Beth liked New York. She liked that everything she needed was within walking distance from her little apartment. The formality that had dictated life in a white, middle-class city like Lexington didn’t exist here. In many ways, New York was more of a culture shock than France or Russia had been.

Benny offered to help her find furniture, but she turned him down, choosing the easy option of Sears delivery for the big things. However, she asked him to drive her to one of the weekend flea markets, loading up a rented pickup truck with as much as she could find. Knowing Benny, he’d probably furnished his place with items that had been left out for Sanitation to haul away. 

“Watch the curb,” Beth snapped, head hanging out the window as Benny attempted to parallel park the truck in front of her building.

“I am,” he bit back. “I’ve never driven anything this clunky before. Why don’t you get your fucking license next time you want to do this.”

Beth huffed but kept her mouth shut as they unloaded everything and dragged it to the elevator. 

At first, it was strange to have Benny be such a constant presence in her life once more. When he’d trained her for Paris, they’d lived on top of one another maybe, but there had always been clear, unspoken boundaries between them— no personal, just chess. Not even sex could bring down those walls. 

To now have Benny’s awkward overtures of friendship made it clear that this was new territory for both of them. Beth at least had Jolene, but she wondered if Benny had a Jolene. Someone to talk about things that had nothing to do with chess. 

* * *

  
  


Once settled in her new apartment, Beth quickly built up new routines. She found that keeping herself busy kept her mind occupied from slipping into the usual dark corners where the compulsion to reach for a drink or her pills lay. 

Most days, she walked down to either Washington or Union Square Park and set herself up at a table. Sometimes she’d play others in the park, an experience she found just as pleasant and relaxing as it had been in Moscow. When she wanted to focus, she walked to the Marshall Chess Club, where Benny had set her up as a member, or to one of the chess cafes in Greenwich Village, where many active titled players congregated. 

When she’d first arrived, Benny had toured her around, pointing out all the best chess haunts the Village had to offer— stores, cafes, and clubs dedicated solely to chess. 

Some days it was like Beth had stepped into a dream, her days spent playing, analyzing, and discussing chess with like-minded people. It was a strange sensation, though, the level of celebrity that followed her, even in the United States. To have a room full of eyes watch as she claimed a free table; to have so many people know exactly who she was without her even having to say her name.

Kentucky had afforded her a certain level of anonymity that the little world she was carving out for herself in New York lacked, despite how vastly bigger New York was then Lexington. 

Sometimes she played Hilton, or Arthur, or Weiss, or any of the new acquaintances she’d made since her move. There was often a queue of men waiting to challenge her. Sometimes she played other women, which was always a pleasant reprieve. Occasionally she even played Benny. Beth noticed that the times she played Benny always drew the largest crowd of spectators, people even abandoning their own games to watch the two of them. But they rarely sought each other out for a serious game in the clubs or cafes, just for messing about with theory, for someone to bounce ideas off of. 

When she questioned his avoidance, Benny shrugged, a small, wry grin tugging at his lips. 

“I can only have my ass publicly handed to me so many times before it starts to become demoralizing,” He said smoothly, scratching at the back of his head in that offhandedly charming way of his. “I’ve got my own reputation around here to think of, you know. You’re bad for business, Harmon.” 

But Beth doubted that. It never bothered Benny that she always won when they practiced, just the two of them spread out at one of their apartments. In fact, she was sure it had turned him on the first time they’d slept together after she’d destroyed him and his friends in speed chess. And if he did get frustrated or annoyed, it was never aimed at her, but at himself for not having caught a move or seen her strategy until it was too late. 

He never made her feel guilty for being better. He praised it. 

No, Beth figured his real reason was the same as hers. 

When she played Benny, the rest of the world fell away, till it was just the two of them and the sixty-four squares that divided them. She might as well be naked; she felt just as exposed. Benny and his fucking eyes, dark irises indiscernible from cornea like a shark in the water. Then when it was over, the real world came rushing back into existence.

In the aftermath, Benny always blinked rapidly for a moment, as if adjusting his gaze, fingers white-knuckled on the tabletop as his focus turned back to her. He looked wrecked and exhilarated in equal measure. 

It was obscene, really. 

And then, with a quick scrub of his hand across his face, the look was gone, and she was left to stew. Flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the early summer heat, and angry, the win unsatisfying on its own. 

It wasn’t fair of him to put this want in her, this desire, and then walk away. Why was everything always on his terms? 

Well, she was just going to have to get over it. Especially with the U.S. Open in only a few weeks, she couldn’t afford to let her libido get the best of her. 

“Just find someone else’s thumb to suck,” Jolene suggested when Beth called that night. “Must be loads of chess boys desperate for you to look their way.” 

Jolene wasn’t wrong there. Beth spent almost every day surrounded by men, some of them even good looking ones. It wouldn’t be difficult to take one of them to bed, just to relieve the pressure building up inside her. But if she did that, sex would become just another thing she used to escape, no better than the drinking and the pills. 

And these men weren’t interested in _her_. They wanted ‘America’s beguiling chess star,’ as _Chess Review_ had described her in last month’s edition. 

But Benny had known _her_ , wanted _her,_ and then had a change of heart, so maybe Jolene was right. Maybe it was better to just fuck someone, get it and Benny out of her system, then go back to focusing on what matters with a clear head. 

* * *

  
  


At Jolene’s insistence that physical exercise would help the cravings, Beth had dropped into a YMCA looking to join a women’s racquetball rec league. Without Jolene, she didn’t see much point, but she went all the same as it gave her a break from chess. On the way back, though, Beth found herself drawn to the drop-in classes offered at a dance studio down the street. Beth had always liked to dance, the loose feeling of her body as she moved to music on the radio or TV. She’d never danced in front of others but watching the tap dancers move across the floor, it seemed freeing in a way that appealed to her. 

One class turned into two, then three, and before Beth knew it, she’d dropped racquetball to join a weekly beginners tap class. She loved the rhythmic pounding, how it numbed out her mind from being able to think of anything else except the sound of her feet and her next dance steps.

When she mentioned her new hobby in passing one night at Benny’s with Hilton and Arthur, Benny stared at her like she’d grown another head. The dismayed expression on his face quickly morphed to one of irritation, though, when Hilton broke into a sweet story of dancing with his Oma every Sunday as a child before sweeping Beth up in a clumsy waltz. 

“We’re here to focus on the Open, not Wexler’s fancy feet,” he grumbled. 

It was the best substitute for the cravings she’d found so far. Better than AA certainly, which she’d tried and, as expected, had not found helpful. Harry’s comments from the diner lay in the back of her mind, though, as her Mexican stock of pills began to dwindle. She had worked herself back down to take them only a few times a week, but she hated the idea that she still needed them at all. They made her feel small and powerless, like the emotionally stunted child she’d been at Methuen. 

She wanted to play the Open in a month totally sober, to prove to herself that Moscow wasn’t a one-off. 

Still, what would she do when the well ran dry? Try to get a prescription? She was terrified of going through the intense withdrawal she’d had last November. But the goal was to get off the pills, not stay on them. 

Maybe she couldn’t fix this on her own. 

* * *

  
  


Beth played the U.S. Open in Nebraska in August. It wasn’t a tournament she needed anymore, but it was the biggest one she’d played since Moscow. 

“You’re not actually going to drive, are you?” Beth incredulously whispered over what was possibly the dullest lecture about speed chess she’d ever attended at Marshalls. Benny placed his finger over his lip, and she scowled, swatting at his arm and ignoring his little smirk. She’d been surprised to see him here tonight. Other people’s lectures didn’t seem his thing. 

“Yes,” he whispered back after a moment. He had his long, thin legs spread out, ankle resting on his knee so that his boot brushed her leg every time he jiggled his foot. Even in the summer, he had his dark jeans and boots on. Beth couldn’t understand how someone so skinny could take up so much space.

“That’s over 1,400 miles away. Almost twenty-three hours of driving. Did you drive to Las Vegas, too?” 

The speaker flipped to a new slide— Arthur Drake’s 1931 match against Capablanca, and Benny rolled his eyes. 

“Yes,” he replied again, slowly spinning his hat around his fist. 

“Why wouldn’t you just fly? It can’t be that much more expensive.”

“Because,” Benny said softly, that stupid lofty look on his face. “Sometimes, it’s about the journey.” 

Beth scoffed, “What, did some hippie at Caffe Reggio tell you that?” He just grinned. 

A week later, Beth flew to Lincoln. The tournament was held at the Lincoln Hotel, and rounds were scheduled once daily at 7:00 PM. Usually, Beth preferred day matches, but the long evenings meant that some nights, by the time Beth crawled into bed, she was so tired she didn’t need to reach for her pills. 

It felt like progress. 

Beth played well in all her matches, aggressive and sharp, her pieces flying across the board in a way they hadn’t all winter. She experimented with openings not in her usual repertoire— the Scandanavian, the Nimzo-Indian Defense, and several irregulars. 

“Those poor fuckers,” Benny said, “You toy with them till they’re sweating right through their shirt collars, then you go for the jugular. Like an alley cat with a mouse.” He shook his head in amusement, Coke bottle poised at his mouth. “It’s brutal, Harmon.” 

Beth smiled. No one questioned Brogov for his aggressive, cutthroat style. Like an icebreaker plowing through frozen water. They would learn not to question her either. 

There would be no draws. 

It was a foregone conclusion, really, that she would play Benny in the final. He put up a serious fight, more intrusive and aggressive than she’d ever seen him play. As if he were fighting more than her on the board. 

Quite honestly, it alarmed her.

His face was a mask, not a ripple of emotion. And in the split second he lifted his eyes from the board to catch her gaze, it was like he was looking right through her. Beth fought the urge to turn in her seat and find the scorch mark sure to be on the wall behind her head. 

Her mouth opened without thought, lips forming the beginning syllables of his name silently. But he was already gone, eyes back to the board as he promoted his pawn. Something inside Benny was breaking, and she was powerless to stop it. So she pushed back, move for move, till she’d forced him into a Dovetail’s Mate, and the game was over. 

Her fingers trembled as they shook hands. He didn’t look at her. 

* * *

Later, alone in her room, Beth took several pills and washed them down with a glass of merlot. 

Then she began to pack for her flight back to New York in the morning. Methodically folding her slacks and the new mini skirts and romper she’d bought for the tournament. 

She felt hollowed out, just like after her defeats to Borgov. Even though she’d won. 

And she’d done it sober, too, she thought as she glared at the now empty wine glass on the nightstand. 

What the hell had happened this afternoon? 

Beth was steaming her dress for the plane when she heard a knock at the door. 

Benny had his hand braced on the door trim when she opened it. Head bowed so that when he looked up at her, it was through the wisps of hair that hung across his eyes. 

“Hi,” he said hoarsely, hesitantly. “Can I come in?” 

She noticed he was stripped of his hat and leather duster. His armour was left in his room. Along with his shoes, it seemed, as she looked down to notice his bare feet. 

“Did you really leave your room without shoes?” she found herself asking calmly when what she really wanted to do was slam the door in his face.

“What?” Benny glanced at his feet for a moment, frowning. “I had other things on my mind.” 

“We’re not on the same floor,” She continued. “That means you rode the elevator in your bare feet.” 

“Beth,” he blurted in exasperation, “forget about my damn feet. I’m trying to apologize.”  
  
She leaned against the wall, arms pinned across her chest. “I don’t want an apology, Benny. I want an explanation.” 

Benny’s toes flexed against the hallway carpet, a garish loop pile chevron pattern. When he noticed her staring again, he tipped her chin back up with the pads of two fingers. She found herself caught in his eyes, black and sticky like resin. Then he paused, brows furrowed as he gently touched her bottom lip. 

Her lip stained red with wine. 

Her breath caught in her throat, and she jerked away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and anger at the sadness and guilt that flickered in his gaze. She didn’t want his sympathy. 

“Beth—” he began plaintively.

“Explain or go away,” Beth snapped, steel in her spine. Benny gave her a hard, penetrating stare, as if he were sizing her up, then he sighed. 

“Can I come in?” he repeated. Beth stepped back, curling her legs up under her as she sat on the edge of the bed, and Benny hurried into the room after her. 

“I tried something,” He said finally. “It didn’t work.”

“No,” she laughed harshly, “I guess it didn’t. I still won.” Was it all some petty tactic to psych her out? Some fucking mind game? She refused to believe that. Benny didn’t need mind games or cheap tricks to play well. He was an excellent player all on his own, someone who prided himself on his sportsmanship. 

He rubbed at his cheek for a moment, then picked up her bottle of Xanzolam from the dresser, his brow arched in a wordless challenge when he turned back to her. 

“Were you high when we played this afternoon?” He asked, an unnatural stillness to his voice. She glared at him. She would not allow Benny to make her feel guilty about this. 

“No,” she said sharply. 

“What about your other games?” he pressed.   
  
“Jesus, Benny, no.” she snarled, “I played every single game stone-cold sober, okay. I’ve been sober since I moved.” 

“But you’re _still_ taking these,” he countered, shaking the bottle. “I know things were bad last year, but I thought after Russia…” 

“Look, I’m doing the best I can.” She bit out. “I tried to go cold turkey. Tried to focus on anything other than how much I messed up in Paris, but it didn’t work.” 

Benny looked away, jaw clenched. 

“So instead, I gave in to it and drank.” She could feel angry red splotches forming on her chest and neck. “If you knew how bad things were, why didn’t you come see me?” 

She knew that wasn’t fair. She’d probably have rejected Benny the same way she had Harry. But she couldn’t help but think _maybe_. _Maybe_ if he’d showed up at her door like Jolene had, things might have been different, _better,_ sooner. _Maybe_ her life wouldn’t have gone to shit for as long as it had. _Maybe_ she wouldn’t be out a whole year of competitions and titles she’d worked so hard to earn. 

But she would never know because she’d pushed Benny away, and he had let her.

She watched the lingering anger drain from Benny, like air from a punctured tire. With a heavy sigh, he plunked himself down on the bed beside her. 

“I used to think about that all time,” He murmured. “I wish I had.” He gave a mirthless little chuckle, “In fact, there are several things I wish I’d done differently.” 

“Yeah,” she mumbled, fiddling with the pleats of her skirt, “me too.” 

“Today…” he began, “I wanted to be Borgov.” 

“What?” she choked out in disbelief. 

Benny leaned forward, his elbows balanced on his knees as he cradled his head. “I wanted to feel it like he did when you beat him in Moscow. It wasn’t enough to replay the games. I wanted you at your absolute prime, the way he got to play you.” 

Beth felt her heart leap to her throat, her blood thundering in her ears. 

“Shit, I must have read every single match write-up available. I got European contacts to post me international articles. I even got my hands on radio commentary that the BBC put out.” Beth gazed at him, as if transfixed, while he stared resolutely at the floor. 

“That moment when you looked up at the ceiling and cinched that ending Gambit. I knew exactly what you were doing.” 

Beth grinned to herself. Of course, Benny knew. 

“He wasn’t playing the moves we’d strategizes, which means you played that whole fucking sequence through in your head.” He shook his head in disbelief, but his voice was coloured with awe. “Just once, I wanted _that_ Beth.” Then his brows slid as he frowned. “But I couldn’t make it work. The pieces weren’t moving the way I’d planned, and you weren’t playing how I wanted you to, and I just got angrier and angrier with myself.” 

He gave a small self-deprecating snort of laughter, “Pretty stupid, right? I am no Soviet.” He said lightly, turning his head to smirk at her. It belied the dark, vulnerable look in his eyes.

“Very stupid,” she agreed, softening her words with a smirk of her own at Benny’s mocked affronted expression. “I didn’t play the exact way you wanted because I wasn’t playing Borgov. I was playing _you._ ” She gave in to the impulse once more and gently brushed back Benny’s hair, his eyes devouring her as she did so. 

It made her feel like a struck match. Like kerosene poured on a flame that’d gone to embers. It didn’t feel like quickfire this time, though, a heat that burned so hot it scorched the earth in its wake. More like a smouldering warmth, the kind that sank into your bones on a cold day.

“My game against Brogov wasn’t better, or yours worse. They’re just different. The way they make me feel is different.” Beth wet her lips, and Benny’s eyes followed the movement. “I don’t play against anyone the way I play against you.”

Benny’s mouth twitched. “Friedman once told me we’d make almost as much as the blue theatres on 42nd if we charged admission.” 

Beth blushed, gaze shifting away, that flame flickering low in her stomach. 

“Right,” Benny rasped after a tense beat, bounding up from the bed. “Well, I’m off to lick my wounds, then call it an early night. Got a long drive ahead of me.” 

Beth made a non-committal sound, swallowing down the throb of disappointment. The win, once again, unsatisfying on its own.

Benny was at the door when he stopped, hand on the knob as he held it ajar. “You could always come with me if you wanted.” 

He said it casually, but they both knew the loaded implication. 

“Twenty-two hours in your rust bucket of a car? Not a chance,” she said. “You come to me this time.”

  
  


* * *

Beth called Jolene when she got home on Saturday. 

Some of her fondest memories of Alma were of reviewing her games post-match. It had made Beth feel loved in a way she’d never experienced before, that Alma cared enough to sit and listen attentively even though she didn’t know a thing about chess. 

To be able to share this with Jolene meant more than Beth would ever be able to express. She had someone to just sit and listen. Someone who cared. 

“I assume you won.” Jolene drawled.

“Naturally,” Beth replied, the receiver cradled between her cheek and neck as she finished painted her nails, a pearlized shade that shimmered in the light. 

“And everything go like you wanted?” Jolene knew about Beth’s desire to play sober. And she had. Her little blip after the final didn’t seem worth mentioning. Five months ago, Beth would have reached for the whole bottle instead of just a glass, a handful of pills instead of only the few she took. 

“All good,” Beth replied. 

“Good,” Jolene said succinctly, but Beth could hear the praise in her voice. “So…” Jolene prompted, “You get yourself a new thumb yet?” Beth made a scandalized noise, smudging her nail polish. 

Beth smiled to herself indulgently. “No need,” she said coyly. 

Jolene snorted. “Your baby faced chess pirate came round? Shit, Beth, you sure know how to pick ‘em. You know they have handsome models and rich bankers where you live, right?” 

“Shut-up,” she huffed in amusement. Jesus, he’d better have come around, or else she was seriously going to have to reconsider the fucking a stranger idea. 

Since then, she’d been at loose ends. She ran a few errands but more or less puttered about the apartment, unable to even look at her chess set without breaking out in a fierce blush. She hated to admit she was sat around waiting for Benny, but she knew that’s _exactly_ what she was doing. 

And in uncomfortable new underwear, too. 

By Tuesday night, she began to worry. Benny should have been back by now. She could call him, but irrational fear gripped her. What if he’d been home this whole time and had simply changed his mind? 

No, it was better to leave it. That way, she could play nonchalant about the way they’d left things, like she hadn’t sat around waiting like some heartsick fool. 

Then the buzzer went, and her heart shuttered. 

“Beth, invite me up,” his voice urged, tinny over the intercom, and Beth’s skin prickled. When she swung the door open, Benny rushed in, crowding into her little foyer as he kicked the door close behind him. 

“Going somewhere?” she asked, eyeing the leather duffle he dropped roughly at his feet. 

“I’m never fucking leaving New York, again.” He asserted with a snarl, reaching for her hips as he shuffled her backwards. “You were right. That ‘rust bucket’ as you called it, well, the piece of shit’s clutch gave out in the middle of small-town Indiana. On a Sunday.” Benny pressed closer, his hands sliding from his kneading hold on her to skim up her arms, shoulders, then neck as he craned her head back. 

She desperately wanted to kiss him. 

“I spent the night in some sad motel, waiting for a garage to open and thought about how much I wanted to touch you. I feel like I’ve been on edge for fucking days now.” 

Beth made a small whining noise in the back of her throat and clutched at his shirt. Benny’s fingers were like fire on her skin, his thumbs brushing along her jaw. He wasn’t the only one who’d been on edge. 

“Just so we’re clear,” He drawled quietly. “When you were here in December…” he raised a brow in meaning, and Beth rubbed her lips together. “I wanted to come up. _Believe me,_ ” he stressed, eyes narrowed and dark with desire. “But sex complicates things. And you didn’t know if you were coming or going, and to be honest, I was still feeling a tad gunshy.” Her eyes flickered away in guilt, but he brought her back, his fingers rubbing at the nape of her neck. 

“But it was never about not wanting you.” 

There was this tenderness in Benny’s eyes now. She’d seen this look occasionally, a fleeting glance that was gone before she could ever wrap her mind around what it could possibly mean. 

She thought maybe she understood now. 

“And now?” she asked shyly.  
  
Benny grinned, not his usual wry one, but a soft, happy thing. “Being with you doesn’t feel complicated anymore.”  
  
Beth took a deep, steadying breath. All these months, she’d been so frustrated and hurt thinking Benny had moved on when, really, he’d been waiting for her to sort herself out. 

“Let’s play chess.” She said, gently pulling his hands from her neck to draw him into her living room.  
  
“What?” Benny gaped, groaning in dismay. “You want to play chess _now?_ Beth, I fought through the Holland Tunnel to get here. I haven’t even been home yet.” 

“Okay,” she countered, “then shower, get changed-- your stuff’s here already. Then we’ll play.” 

Benny stared after her while she moved to set up her board on the coffee table, a comically put out look on his face. “You’re serious?” 

“Yes,” she replied calmly, smothering her grin as he turned on his heel with an annoyed grumble. Beth made coffee while Benny showered, a strong Turkish coffee she’d bought at a bodega down the street. 

Benny padded out ten minutes later, dressed in only his jeans and his jewellery as he vigorously rubbed at his head with a towel. “Your water pressure is way better than mine.”  
  
Beth smirked, “everything about my apartment is better than yours.” He shrugged in acknowledgement, accepting the mug she handed him and tossed the towel onto the back of a kitchen chair. Benny’s hair was like a damp, downey cloud, wet tendrils clinging to his neck and curling around his ears. 

Benny watched her with dark eyes, moustache hiding his upper lip as his tongue peeked out. “You still want chess?” He asked gravelly.

Beth cleared her throat, heat rising in her cheeks. She threw Benny a commanding look, then sat down on her couch, a soft coral coloured three-seater that warmed up her beige living room. When Benny joined her, she moved her white pawn to d4, raising a brow in challenge. He responded, a searching expression on his face, like he was trying to read her thoughts. She followed the sequence, playing her bishop and her knight before he caught on, his eyes widening in recognition. 

“Beth…” he began. 

“I don’t want to play Borgov,” she said clearly, keeping his eye. “I want to play you.” 

Benny swallowed then nodded, cracking his knuckles. “Okay.” 

The game progressed, Beth altering her moves to allow for the new places Benny took them as he hunched further and further over the board-- his belly concaving; necklaces hanging in midair; his shoulder blades jutted to expose the delicate lines of the bone. They continued on as night rolled into the precious early hours of morning, the coffee long gone cold, before Benny looked up, breathing heavily. 

“I resign.” He said, voice tight in his throat. 

Beth studied the board. There were still two possible moves to escape her queen. She had him ‘on the ropes’ as Benny himself had explained once, but he wasn’t out yet. 

She moved the chessboard back to the coffee table. Then, slowly, she climbed onto Benny’s lap, her skin erupting in tingles at the harsh rattle of Benny’s breath. Beth met his eyes, which seem to darken a shade the longer she held them, and she could get lost looking at them if she didn’t have other things in mind. 

Benny’s hair had dried by now, a haphazard mess that she smoothed into submission, the sweet, floral smell of her shampoo wafting off him. He moaned when the blunt edge of her nails scraped the skin beneath, and Beth leaned down to connect their mouths. She slid her parted lips over his bottom one, sucking it gently, running her tongue along it as they kissed. He groaned louder and opened his mouth, their noses bumping and teeth clacking as he shifted under her. 

This is why she’d held out. It wouldn’t have been like this with another; it couldn’t. 

Beth dropped her hips down further, and Benny clutched roughly at her backside, pushing up against her with a choked curse as their lips disconnected. 

“Fuck, Beth. _Fuck,_ ” he gasped, gazing up at her helplessly, his eyes wide and hungry. “I’ve missed you.” 

Beth felt like she was on fire again. “Me too,” she mumbled, sheltering her face in the crook of his neck. It felt too intimate a confession to make so exposed, even as their bodies rocked together. But it was true, and she owed him the truth. She had missed Benny. Even when he was right there beside her these past months, she’d missed him. His friendship wasn’t enough; she wanted all of him. 

Things progressed at a breakneck pace from there. A round of lightning, rather than the untimed game she’d originally had in mind. But it had been too long, and she wanted it too much to take her time. Benny seemed to agree, frantically kicking away his jeans as Beth raced to the bathroom to grab a newly purchased condom. 

Then they were moving; months of longing and frustration bleeding out around her as she gripped the back of the couch for leverage, and Benny arched up beneath her, his back bowing in supplication to the feeling overtaking them both. When she broke with a desperate little moan, Benny tensing up under her, it was like a massive pressure was lifted from her chest-- something that no drug, drink, or session with her tap shoes could ever hope to shift. 

Beth had enough self-awareness to know it wasn’t really about the sex. Benny hadn’t fucked away all the trauma and mental blocks Beth had built up around herself. But he’d hold her up, as he did now, his hands supporting her as they both tried to catch their breath. 

Benny wouldn’t let her fall again. And if she slipped, he’d be there to brace her. 

Afterwards, he stared up at her, eyes wide and glazed, a smug smile on his lips. “I think it’s safe to say,” he panted, “that it isn’t just chess we do well together.” 

She had to agree. 

* * *

“Don’t think you’ll have it easy in November,” Benny muttered, turning so Beth was curled around his back in bed, her arm looped over his narrow, boney hip. “It’s a Zonal this year, and I plan to be at Palma in the new year.” 

The U.S. Chess Championship was to be held in New York at the end of November. It led to the Interzonal in Palma de Mallorca, which was the only way to get to the Candidates, which was the only way to get to the World Championship. 

“And not just as your _boyfriend_ ,” Benny added, rushing the last word, like she wouldn’t catch it if he sped through it. Beth grinned, momentarily burying her face into the hollowed space between his shoulderblades, and felt some tension leave him. Benny grabbed her hand, pressing a burning kiss to the palm. Then he sucked her finger into his mouth, biting at it playfully, and Beth reeled back with a surprised laugh before he grabbed at her to pull her back closer. 

Then they slept, not even the raucous sounds of morning Manhattan traffic able to rouse them, until almost noon. 

Later, Benny got Beth to show off some of her tap dance moves, and their laughter rang out through the quiet apartment at the sound of her downstairs neighbour banging on their ceiling. 

It felt like progress. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be much tamer, but @greengardens declared I couldn't in good conscience write a +10,000 word fic filled with yearning and sexual tension, and end it on a G-rated ambiguous "arty-farty" ending as she labelled it.
> 
> ALSO: I am in no way suggesting that AA is not an absolutely valid and helpful program for addiction. I am not an expert in any of this.


End file.
